The lark sent down her revelry;
The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush;
In answer coo’d the cushat dove
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
III.
No thought of peace, no thought of rest,
Assuaged the storm in Roderick’s breast.
With sheathed broadsword in his hand,
Abrupt he paced the islet strand,